#13 - Doors and decisions
or when the mundane feels heavy
I don’t like the period between Christmas and New Year. I never quite know what to do with it: should I be relaxing or planning ahead? I can’t fully commit to one mood or the other. In the end, I always end up doing a bit of both which feels counterproductive. I can’t wait for tomorrow, the day I can officially dive headfirst into planning the year ahead.
For this newsletter, I wanted to experiment with autofiction. It’s a literary genre that blends autobiography and fiction. Life experiences and emotions are the foundation for the story but one can take creative liberties to craft a narrative that is not strictly factual. I wrote this a few weeks back. I hope you enjoy it.
I had walked past the Adam & Eve countless times.
Every time, I looked up and read the sign—‘Adam & Eve’—I’d think: if only my friends were here."The Adam & Eve is a pub in East London, where I live. When I pass by on weekends, it’s busy with people vaping outside, spilling out onto the pavement. I always take a deep breath before walking through the thick cloud of chewing gum smoke. I don’t know why I do that. The smell of vape isn’t that bad. I think it’s to block out any interactions. As if holding my breath would make me invisible.
It’s the kind of place that has everything you’d expect from a good pub: sticky wooden floors, velvet chairs and small, round tables. The staff is friendly, the beer is good and the TV never too loud. Crucially though, the Adam & Eve sits squarely on my route. Whether I need to go to the gym, the overground or the shops on Chatsworth Road, I can hardly avoid it. Sometimes, when I am in a rush, I hurry past without a glance. Still, I can feel its presence. A shadow lingering in my mind.
Is that what longing feels like?
One time, I felt particularly strong and determined. I decided to challenge it. It was just a pub after all. I stared at it so intensely people must have thought I was casting a spell on it. It felt as though the longer I stared the sadder I became. After fifteen long minutes, I walked away, defeated. The Adam & Eve sat there as a constant reminder of how much I missed the people I cared about. I could barely feel the warmth of the long summer days spent together in the French countryside.
Autumn had arrived, and I noticed life slowing down. It felt unfair, to have worked so hard only to be haunted by the same heavy feeling. There was a sense that there was an even bigger and better world out there. But what world was that? I needed to adjust to a new speed I didn’t foresee. Hours, days and years had moved so fast. With the slowing down came an opportunity to reflect on why we do the things we do. There was a growing sense that new decisions needed to be made for the future.
One day we will be sitting here together.
Days passed, and I continued walking by. I would glance at the Adam & Eve from across the road. Then winter came and it seemed cosier than ever. I needed to put an end to this constant threat. It was time to step inside. I approached the large wooden door and tried to open it, but it was locked. I cupped my hands around my face and peered through the window. People were chatting and drinking inside—it was clearly open. I tried the door again, but it seemed to resist me. Then I noticed a small, handwritten note stuck to the door: "To get in, come back with a friend.”
Feeling triggered and unsettled, I left. In the days that followed, that note lingered in my mind. Determined to solve the mystery, I decided to return with a friend. I’d only known her for a few weeks, and it was my turn to suggest a pub. And since this one had been occupying my mind, I figured we might as well check it out. Feeling confident, I approached the door with a smile. I grabbed the handle, and prepared to finally step inside and put the whole thing behind me. But the door wouldn’t budge. Then I saw it—another note, scrawled beneath the first: "To get in, come back with a real friend."
There was no security at the door and no one around to ask for help. Then, I noticed someone about to come out. I turned to my friend and said we’d wait a moment; once the door opened, we could slip inside. She lit a cigarette and kept talking, her words drifting in and out of my focus as I kept my attention fixed on the door.
Finally, it opened. I stepped forward, letting the group of friends exit while holding the door for them. But as soon as the last person stepped out, the door slammed shut with a force so sudden and violent that it startled me. How was that even possible? Did people know about this? Why wasn’t anyone talking about it? I turned back to my friend, an awkward grin on my face. “Let’s go somewhere else,” I said.
Weeks passed. I received a message from my friends. They were in London for the premiere of a film they had worked on. I suggested we meet at the local pub where I had been having trouble with the door. I told them about the strange door that refused to open, about how the pub seemed determined not to let me in. I recounted the times I had tried and failed.
As we arrived at the pub, I asked them to try getting in. By that point, I was certain the door wouldn’t open. My friend grabbed the handle and struggled with it. He looked at me with a mix of shock and disbelief on his face, while I somehow felt a sense of smugness.
"See? I told you," I said.
But then, to my surprise, he turned the handle and the door opened.
"I was joking," he said with a grin. "Après-vous."
